


Titles

by Phylwannabe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23912824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phylwannabe/pseuds/Phylwannabe
Summary: Robb Stark carries a lot of titles around on his young shoulders and they don't mean all that much until his 7th name day when his father bestows him with yet another one.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 29
Kudos: 109





	Titles

Little Robb had many titles that constantly followed him around in much the same way he trailed after his father’s giant direwolf on sturdy, scuffed knee, legs.

He was the "Young Wolf", just as the brave uncle whose name he bore had been called before him;

He was known as the "Northern Prince", first in line to the throne currently occupied by his gracious Lady Mother;

He was also the "Heir Apparent to the Six Kingdoms", so designated by his reclusive Uncle Brandon, himself known alternatively as the _3 Eyed Raven_ and _King Bran the Broken_ ;

The Free Folk affectionately referred to him as "Baby Crow" and their leader oft embarrassed Robb by loudly proclaiming to all around that the boy was not only prettier than both of Tormund’s daughters, but also even more beautiful than his famously handsome sire;

Maester Sam Tarly, his mother’s most loyal retainer, and Sir Davos, Hand to the Queen, both called him "Young Master" as they alternately chased him about the halls of Winterfell to corral him for tutoring or whittling lessons;

His Nan called him either "Little Lord" or "Brat" depending upon the time of day and how high she had to raise her skirts in order to run after and coax him home for supper, bath or bed;

His beautiful Lady Mother would open her arms to him whenever he came into view, retainers and hangers-on be damned. As Robb entered her embrace she would whisper endearments in his ear, calling him "Sweetling", her "Handsome Boy", and her "Little Florian". Robb’s face would blush as red as his curls from receiving Queen Sansa’s attentions in front of the whole Court even as he secretly relished the names his mother so lovingly bestowed.

But Robb’s favorite title, the name he yearned to hear over and over again as he grew up, was the simple one given him by his father on his seventh name day. Like many boys, Robb looked up to his father, thinking him a hero. Unlike other boy’s fathers, however, Robb’s was a hero in truth. All of the stories told around the fire in the Great Hall proved his father to be so. His sire had saved both the Wildlings and then the entire North from a horrible living death at the hands of the Others. He had rescued Westeros from the Mad Queen and his Lady Mother from unspeakable loneliness. His father was the only person Robb knew who held even more titles than Robb himself: Man of the Night’s Watch; Lord Commander; Hero--not only of Hardhome, but also of the Battle of the Bastards, and of the Long Night. He had been King In the North, Warden of the North, DragonRider, The Prince Who Was Promised, Exiled Prince, and King Beyond The Wall. Finally, after being pardoned by both Queen Sansa and her royal brother in the South, his father became Commander of the Northern armies and the Queen’s Royal Consort. Robb’s father was the greatest swordsman alive, the Watcher on the Wall, and the Shield that Guards the Realms of Men. He was a living legend and Robb adored him.

On Robb’s name day, he walked with his father to the Godswood encircled by the outer walls of Winterfell. Ghost padded silently behind his master, occasionally nosing Robb in a friendly manner. When they arrived at their usual place, Ghost plopping down by the dark water, Robb sat beside his father on a fallen limb of the largest Weirwood tree as he watched the older man clean his Valyrian steel sword. Oh, for the day when Robb would be big enough to wield Long Claw!

As Robb patiently watched the cleaning cloth repeatedly slide down the length of the sword, his father looked over at him."Before I left for the Wall to join the Knight’s Watch, I grew up here in Winterfell. You know that, Robb."

"Aye, Papa, I know that! You grew up with Mama and all of the other Starks", Robb nodded, sending his auburn curls bouncing.

His father looked at him solemnly, no hint of a smile in the gray eyes that were so like Robb’s own. "I was a bastard, Robb. I was known as the Bastard of Winterfell. Do you know what that means?"

Robb shook his head as his father placed a large hand on Robb’s shoulder. "It means that while your grandfather, Ned, acknowledged me, I was not your grandmother’s son. I wasn’t like your Uncle Robb, or your Mother. I couldn’t claim to be a true born Stark like your Aunt Arya or Bran or Rickon. I was a disgrace to the good name of Ned Stark and I never felt I belonged in Winterfell, not truly."

Robb looked up at his father in protest, "But, Papa, you WERE trueborn, you were the son of Prince Rheagar and Lyanna Stark. Uncle Sam told me that himself and showed me the Maester’s journal where it said so." Robb jumped up to face his father and placed his small hands on his father’s shoulders. "You were a true born Prince, Papa," and then as only small boys can, he whispered, "YOU were the Heir to the Iron Throne!"

His father looked down, gifting Robb with one of his rare smiles, before he spoke, his Northern burr more evident , "Aye, I was all that, Robb, but I grew up not knowin' who I really was. I just grew up wantin' to be a Stark, more than anythin'. I wanted to hear your grandmother call me "her boy" just like she did your uncles, but she never did. I wanted to be loved and cared for as a Stark...can you understand that, Robb?"

Tears flashed in Robb’s eyes as he nodded fiercely, his imagination seeing a small boy like him, alone and unloved in Winterfell. Laying his great sword aside, Robb’s father placed his own hands over Robb’s smaller ones. "More than anythin’, I wanted to hear Ned Stark call me "Son". All of the titles, all of the names I have gained over the years, I would trade them all away to have heard your grandfather, just once, call me "Son". I don’t expect you to understand now, Robb, but maybe, someday, you will."

His steady gaze held Robb’s for a long moment and then his father drew the boy into his strong embrace. Robb closed his eyes and hugged him back as he fervently whispered, "Papa, I love you."

The man slowly pulled away from the boy, his dark eyes glinting. Dark brows furrowed, he blinked for a moment, swallowing hard as he rose from his seat and took Robb’s small hand in his own. Looking up at the sky, he smiled and spoke in his low, steady voice, "The sun is settin’ Robb, and your Lady Mother will be wonderin’ where her boys have wandered off to. We’d best be heading back to the Hall for supper and some name day lemon cakes."

The soldier and his child moved out of the Godswood, Ghost following silently behind. As they cleared the woods and the candlelight from the castle gleamed ahead, Robb’s father stopped once again. Looking down he smiled at the little boy and gave his shoulder a squeeze: "I love you too...Son."

Robb Stark grew up to be Robb II, King of the North, a storied warrior like the Starks of generations before, Wielder of Long Claw, and King of the Six Kingdoms as well. But the most important title ever given to him, the name held by Robb to be the most precious, lofty, and dear, was the one given him by his father as he turned seven, when Jon Snow called him "SON".

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at fanfiction ever. I hope it works out and conveys what I wanted it to in this short, hopefully sweet, little story about Jon and Sansa's son, Robb II.


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